Storm child
by Nico.Slade
Summary: A cold and wet boy is picked up by a boy-lover… and brought to his home. Then a friendship starts between both, and there are also two little brothers.


Storm child

It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, yeah, it's so cliche, but I've always wanted to start a story with that. It was night, which happens regularly, at least where I live. And it usually is dark at night. A southerly storm had blown through, so it was raining and there was a bitterly cold wind. The temperature had fallen below 10 degrees (cee, that is) [50°F].

I was driving home when I saw a hitchhiker on the side of the road. Was the figure large, looming and menacing? Well no, it was rather small and pathetic. As I drove past I realised it was just a young chipmunk who didn't even have a jacket on and must have been soaked to the skin. I stopped the car and opened the passenger door. The figure ran up and got inside. I saw that my passenger was a young boy and, yes, he was soaked, from fur plastered to his head, through soaked T-shirt clinging to his torso, to sodden blue jeans and sneakers. The boy shivered and wrapped his arms around himself in a futile effort to keep warm.

"Where do you want to go?"

"W… W… W… Woodton." His teeth chattered so much with cold he could hardly get the word out and he had a bluish tinge to lips and face.

Woodton was a half hour drive away and I was concerned that the boy was starting to suffer from hypothermia.

"I will take you there, of course, but you look so cold I think it could be dangerous and you have to get warm as soon as possible. I live just around the corner and I think we should get some dry warm clothes for you. Is that OK?"

He just nodded his head and tried to hug himself even tighter. So I turned the heater up full and drove the short distance home. By the time we got to my house, I was sweltering from the heat, but my passenger looked no better.

We went inside and the boy stood in the middle of the room, shivering, looking like a half drowned puppy, with a puddle of water accumulating on the carpet around his feet.

"You really should get warm as quickly as possible," I told him. "The best way to do that is to have a hot shower while I get you some dry clothes."

'Aha,' you say, 'I know where this is leading. It is standard scenario number 4.'

I led the boy to the bathroom, where I turned on the heater and water and gave him a fresh towel. Then I left him while I found some of my old clothes that were hopefully not too large. After returning with a bundle of clothes in my arms, I hesitated outside the bathroom door. Should I have respected his privacy and left the clothes outside the door? But then he might not have realised they were out there. This was the only reason, honest, that I knocked on the door and slipped them inside.

I daresay I should not have looked at the boy, but I could not stop myself from glancing towards him in the shower. However, he was modestly turned away from me, and all I could see was his back, hazed and obscured by the condensation on the glass door of the shower cabinet. An indistinct view of his rounded buttocks was all I was going to get.

'So this is the stage,' you think, 'where he turns towards you with a huge erection, or asks you to wash his back, or you simply leap into the shower and ravage him with your own enormous prong.'

Ha! I wish. None of those things happened, although my wee willie was starting to think prong thoughts. Instead, I left the boy to shower in peace.

He was in the shower for so long that I was beginning to wonder if he had drowned, or simply dissolved and swirled down the drain. But after all, he had an awful lot of warming up to do. Eventually the boy came into the living room and stood, uncertainly, in the middle of the room, and for the first time I got a good look at him.

He looked to be about five feet [1½ m] tall and perhaps around 13 years old. His thatch of tousled brown fur crowned his very cute, almost delicate, face. As for his body, there was no way of telling whether he was fat or skinny in my clothes. Although I was not a large man, my clothes were definitely too large on him. The jersey was baggy, with arms that hid his hands. The track pants hung loosely on him, although the elastic at the ankles stopped them from trailing beyond his feet. And those feet were hidden by woolly winter socks.

In fact he reminded me of Charlie Chaplin's 'Tramp'. OK, the clothes were completely different, the boy didn't have a moustache, he was much younger and certainly much sexier. But even so, there was that lost and wistful look to him.

"Do you feel better now?" I asked.

"Um, yeah." The boy looked wary, no doubt at finding himself in a strange man's house and clothes. Little did he know how strange.

"My name's Martin. What's yours?"

"Alvin."

"It's nice to meet you Alvin. Let's find a coat and some shoes for you to wear and get you on your journey."

Once all that mechanical stuff was sorted out and I stuffed his wet clothes, which I had found left in a sodden mess on the bathroom floor in typical boy fashion, into a supermarket shopping bag, we were in the car and on our way to Woodton. We drove in silence, but I was intensely aware of Alvin sitting beside me, gazing out into the rainy night. Was this brief time to be the extent of my encounter with this child of the storm. I had a pang of regret for all the possible futures that were unlikely to occur. Which was probably just a fancy way of saying that I fancied the boy something bad, and regretted not getting a look at his cock when I almost had the chance.


End file.
